Friends, Foes, and Lovers
by susx
Summary: Series of Varric/Cassandra one-shots.
1. Chapter 1

Varric finally put his quill down, and used his left hand to massage the cramps in his right wrist and arm. He sighed. The writing wasn't coming along quite as well as he would've liked, but then again, anyone would've had a hard time working in his present conditions.

He had decided to work in his room—their room—this evening, because any time he worked in the Great Hall, though the writing itself would go tolerably well, he'd invariably wake her up as he walked in, and then he'd have to put up with her tossing and turning, and her little irritated noises that were just loud enough to let him know how very displeased she was with him, but just soft enough she could feign ignorance if he called her on them.

Tonight, the writing had gone poorly for a few hours, as he could hear her constantly moving, trying to find a comfortable position as she slept in the bed behind him, and just when she had been silent for a while, and he had thought to relax, to get into the rhythm of writing, she had starting moving again, and it was beyond distracting. Not to mention the two times she had gotten up to go to the bathroom, shooting him dark looks that he had chosen to ignore. But she had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, and he had gotten a bit of productive writing done.

He couldn't wait for this to be over. She might be miserable, but he wasn't very happy either. Just another few weeks, he kept telling himself. Of course, after that he might have other distractions from his writing…but one thing at a time.

He quietly put all his supplies away, and tiptoed as noiselessly as he could over to the bed, silently lifting the covers up, inch by inch, and slowly, slowly, putting his weight gently on the bed, as he slid carefully under the covers, and he was almost there, and—

"Varric?" she said softly. He could see her eyes open in the semi-darkness.

_Damn_.

"Were you hoping for someone else?" he asked breezily, reaching over to cup her cheek and give her a quick kiss.

"I'm sorry," she said, biting her lip. "I just…cannot sleep."

"She keeping you awake again?" he asked, reaching out a hand and placing it on her abdomen, on top of his spare tunic that she had taken to wearing to bed when her shirts no longer fit.

"Yes, _he's_ keeping me awake, he's been kicking all night, and I can't get comfortable, and even when I do, I have to wake up to use the bathroom and I'm just so frustrated I could…" her hands vaguely gestured in the air as she searched for a word, before she settled on, "So frustrated I wish I could hit something."

"Or someone?" He chuckled.

"I will admit you are not on the list of my fav—_oof_." She reached down and massaged her stomach, her hand next to his. "There, you felt that?" she asked.

He nodded, suppressing a grin. His girl packed quite the punch. Like her mother. But now, he knew, would not be the best time to tell Cassandra that.

"That is what he has been doing all night. _All night_," she emphasized.

Varric wondered what she wanted him to do. Not that he didn't feel bad, of course. He felt awful. But she seemed to be blaming him for an event that, to the best of his recollection, they had both enjoyed. In fact, he seemed to recall the words _Oh Maker, Varric, don't stop, don't stop_ being uttered more than once, when he had paused during their drunken tumble, his slow-working brain screaming at him that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to do _this_ with the Seeker, but her entreaties, and her long legs wrapped around him …well, it would've taken a better man than him to resist.

And besides, what was really the worst that could happen, he had reasoned with himself the next morning? A bit of embarrassment?

Well, he found out a few short months later just what the worst that could happen was. Not that he hadn't known with a small part of his mind that it was a possibility. But a remote, distant one. With chances so long, it really wasn't worth considering. How many half-dwarven children were there? Not many.

He figured the odds were somewhere between zero and his chance of being physically sent to the Fade. Which, unfortunately, had happened.

And so had this. Which he and she had dealt with. Or rather, were dealing with. Not always happily, but they were adults, and now there was a child to consider, and…perhaps they could make it so it wasn't the worst thing ever. Granted, if a miracle were to happen in his life, he would've preferred it to be something not involving a woman who had taken him prisoner, and tried to stab him in the crotch. But, if he didn't have the weirdest fucking luck, he'd have no luck at all, so…he decided to roll with it.

And really, Cassandra wasn't so bad when she wasn't yelling at him. And everything had been going well—surprisingly well, really, and he had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, things, or at least this thing, had happened for a reason.

There was a sense of humor underneath the Seeker's bluster, and her laughter, when he teased it out of her, was beautiful, and there was a tender gentleness beneath her hard exterior, and he was beginning to think that perhaps he was falling in love with her, and maybe, just maybe, she cared for him and for the child, and he had hope that something that had begun so inauspiciously could turn out well. His happiness and hopes had risen…until recently. Her stomach had seemed to balloon overnight, and with it, her bad temper, and restlessness. And her hatred of him.

He had given her space, which was difficult, given that they now shared quarters and he had grown…surprisingly attached to their comfortable evenings, and the nights they would make love, and feeling the bump that would grow to be his child…their child. But she had begun snapping at him, yelling at him, and…he had hoped she would calm down if he just left her alone. But she only seemed to have gotten worse in the last month.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"No," she said with a downturn to her lips, and she turned over, away from him. Her voice came again, a minute or so later, when he had given himself over to rejection for another night. "Not unless you can stop this from ever happening to begin with."

"Is that what you want?" he demanded, rolling over himself, placing his front on her back, placing his hand again on her abdomen. "For…_this_…never to have happened?"

He waited for a time in silence, as his hand, and no doubt her body, felt the few kicks the child made, and for some reason, he hoped against hope for her answer to be anything other than the resounding _yes_ he knew was coming, and he steeled himself for it, steeled himself not to be hurt.

But the silent moment stretched and filled into silent minutes, and somehow even a "Maker, yes!" would have been better than that awful silence that spoke to him of unwelcome tagalongs, younger brothers, casteless dwarves, and unfaithful lovers.

He felt the silence piercing him, and it was finally too much to bear. "Say something," he demanded, half-growl, half-plea.

"Varric," she started, and he could hear the tears in her voice,"I'm sorry. I truly am. I know how hard you've been trying—"

He cut her off. He knew how the rest of this went, and he had no desire to let her finish. _I know how hard you've been trying, but it's just not enough._

"It's nothing," he said, his throat aching around the ridiculous tightness there, his eyes stinging, but his voice normal, thank the Maker for small victories. "I know how it is."

"I know you do," she said, her voice frustrated. "But it's not enough—"

_It's not enough, Varric. There's nothing else you can do._

"Of course," he said with a small, almost realistic-sounding chuckle. "You don't need to say anything else. I understand."

"Varric," she said, squeezing his hand where it still lay on her stomach, "You might not need to hear it, but _I_ need to say it."

He remembered echoes of another conversation like this.

_Varric, I need to explain, I need to say it. I'm sorry, so sorry. If things were different—but they're not. I wish I could be with you. Varric, I'll always love you, but—but—_

He had thought that conversation had permanently numbed his heart, and it almost did, but he hadn't realized—until now—how imperceptibly it had unfrozen again, how much this was going to hurt.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, Varric. This is—" and there was a long pause in the darkness, a pause Varric didn't fill as he waited for the sword to fall.

"This is hard for me. I'm not used to being…" another long pause, before she settled on a phrase, "out of control. I've spent years—almost my whole life—training. So I could hit the same mark ten times out of ten, so I could react to a sword thrust without thinking, so I could continue to march past the point of tiredness and exhaustion, so I could do...whatever I wanted to do." She gave a heaving sigh that sounded close to a sob.

He lay still, hoping against hope.

"But now I _can't_. I can't do…anything!" Her voice gathered momentum as she starting listing her litany of complaints. "I'm tired all the time, out of breath, I can't get comfortable, and I'm huge," and here her voice rose to a near-wail, "and I can't see my feet!"

He felt the tension, the crushing vise that had been squeezing his chest, slowly release itself.

_This_? This is what had been bothering her? Andraste's fucking ass. He had thought it was _him_. But this? This he could deal with. This he could take care of.

"But," she continued, "I've been taking it out on you. And I'm sorry."

She moved out of his embrace, rolled over to face him, reached out to lay her palm against his cheek, her calloused fingers lightly grazing the stubble there. "I have been…difficult."

"Difficult? You?" he said, managing a tease.

"All right—impossible," she conceded.

"Just impossible?"

"Varric!" Her tone was sharp, but her fingers were still light as they stroked his cheek.

He pushed himself up on his elbow and leaned over her, and gently cupped her chin and captured her lips in his. It was a kiss of thankfulness, and of relief, and soon, as their breath mingled and his joy bubbled over, of passion.

And later, much later, when he held her again in his arms, and they were both drowsy, and their child was quiet underneath his hand, he took the chance to whisper against her ear, "I'm not sorry," and he hoped she knew what he meant.

And she shifted underneath his hand and grumbled, "I won't be either..as soon as I can see my feet."

"I'll look at 'em for you, Seeker," he offered, grinning against the curve of her neck.

"Ass," she grunted in reply.

But she put her hand on top of his, and threaded their fingers together as they both drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The taste of fear is still in her mouth when they return from Therinfall. He has told her how he's felt in his teasing, flattering words, in his warm, admiring glances, and she? Well, she's ignored it as best as she can. She's well used to hiding her fluttering heart under the firm resolve of duty—but she's tired of it, so tired, and maybe this was a reminder that life can be fleeting, and hope and love need to be seized from inhospitable soil.

She resolves to speak, though she'd rather face an army of red Templars. Her skills have been honed over the years so that she is never at a disadvantage with a sword and shield in hand, but her heart..well, her heart is not a weapon.

So she waits until he comes to see her by the practice dummies, and she tells him she would like a private word. And he gives her a concerned glance, but they walk to the privacy of the lake, their breath steaming in the cold air, the snow muffling their footfalls, and when they stop, there is no more putting it off.

Her cheeks bloom into roses before she's said a word, but she presses on. "I've noticed," she begins, blunt as ever, "the flirting. Unless, of course, I've imagined it, which is very possible, but I don't think so, because I usually only notice things when they're very obvious, and…"

She stops. She's rambling.

He looks at her, his usual broad smile absent, lips pressed into a frown. "I'm sorry if I've bothered you. You have my word that it will not happen again."

"No, no," she says quickly, shaking her head. "That's not…I mean, I'm flattered."

Andraste preserve her, she was making a mess of this. She wants to say _I feel the same, Inquisitor, and you are the most righteous man I've ever met _or maybe, maybe, she wants to say nothing at all and throw her arms around him and yell at him for scaring her before he laughs and kisses her.

But impulsive as she is in every other way, she is not in this, and so she says instead, "I was wondering…what your intentions were."

"Intentions?" the Inquisitor says slowly, his brow furrowing, searching her eyes.

Then his face breaks out into a grin and he grasps her hands from where they hang limply at her sides.

"My dear Cassandra," he says, bowing over one hand and giving it a soft kiss, "no intentions. It's just a way to pass time with a beautiful lady. You needn't worry."

The fool of a man was going to make this difficult for her, wasn't he?

"I'm not _worried_," she says, emphasizing the word. "I just…maybe...," she pauses, praying for courage. "Maybe I feel the same," she says in a rush, and there is a long pause in which he looks at her in astonishment.

"Cassandra," he says, and this time there is no smile, no bow, just a look of pain as he grasps her hands too tightly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant—" he breaks off. "Maker, I'm an idiot."

He takes a deep breath as the pit of her stomach—or perhaps it is just her heart—begins to ache.

"Cassandra, I'm not—" he fumbles for words. "That is—I enjoy the company of men."

Oh.

_Oh._

"I see," she says tightly, around the lump in her throat. She pulls away from him, whirls around, and strides off, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides as she thinks of how blind she has been.

Her only concession to the remnants of her tattered pride is her refusal to break into a run.

He sees her that night, nursing a glass of Antivan brandy at the bar.

It wasn't that difficult to figure out what happened that afternoon. He'd picked his usual spot in Haven as much for its location next to the fire as for its unparalleled views of everything that happened. Unless it happened in the Chantry, he could usually see it.

So it was not without a little curiosity and amusement he saw Cassandra go out with the Inquisitior, leaning a bit closer to him than usual, then saw her return five minutes later. Her hands were balled, and she was walking in what, he, Varric, master interpreter of all things Seeker, would have termed her "Get the Fuck Out of My Way" walk.

By all rights, he should have been pleased, or at the very least, indifferent. The woman had been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment he'd met her. And by "met" he meant "forcibly dragged in for interrogation."

And yet—and yet, interrogations rarely ever run one way, and he knows the hidden core of vulnerability that has been breached today. It belongs to the woman who hung onto his every word as he described Hawke's duel with the Arishok, whose eyes got a faraway look when she proclaimed it "romantic".

The same woman who is first to fight, last to leave, and, for as harsh as her demands can be on others, demands more of herself.

And he sees the way the other occupants of the bar avoid her, warned off by the stiff set of her shoulders, or the glare in her eyes as she looks up.

And he sighs, because he knows it has to be him, and he knows he has to try.

He walks over and takes the stool next to her, left vacant by those people who possess common sense.

He orders his drink and waits.

"Varric." From her lips, his name sounds like a curse. So he returns the favor.

"Seeker," he says with a frown.

Insults thus exchanged, he takes a long drag on his beer.

"Have you ever heard the story of the Herja, the dwarven warrior maiden?"

She sighs. "Varric, I really don't feel like—"

"Who said I was talking to you, Seeker?" he asks. "Could just be talking to myself." He gestures to all the people sitting in the bar. "Could be talking to anyone in here. Awfully self-important, don't you think, assuming I must be speaking to you?"

She gives him a sour look.

"So, as I was saying, Herja," Varric said, addressing some point two feet in front of him.

He sees the Seeker out of the corner of his eye. She might be irritated at him, but she isn't getting up to move, either. He suppresses a smile.

"At any rate, Herja was born a noble, from a minor house, but even at a young age, she was a prodigy in battle. Sword, shield, axe, spear, mace…it was said that dwarves who watched her practice would weep at the sheer beauty of it."

"It was Herja's dream to be a Silent Sister. It's what she worked for, every day, practicing with all her weapons. And with each day that passed, Herja became better, stronger, and more accomplished, until one day, there isn't a man or woman left in Orzammar who could best her in single combat."

He takes another sip of his beer.

"There was no one who could rip a practice dummy into kindling faster than Herja. Why, it was said once that she managed to rip apart a practice dummy in under ten seconds."

Cassandra snorts.

He looks at her, feigning concern. "Sounds like you're getting sick there, Seeker. You might want to go to the healer."

She gives him another sour look, but this one with a slight twist to her lips.

"Where was I? Well...all those practice dummies didn't come cheaply. The sheer expense, combined with her father's gaming debts, put a severe strain on the house's finances. Herja's father begged her to fight in the Proving, to make some money; but no, she refused. Her gift was sacred, she said, granted by the ancestors, and she would only use it in service of the Silent Sisters."

He pauses.

"So then what?" she asks.

"Then? Well, our story takes a sad turn," he says, risking a glance at the Seeker. She's not looking at him, not precisely, but she's not looking away either. He notices her ear is angled toward him in the noisy bar.

"There was a new paragon named out of the merchant classes. A fellow who figured out how to brew ale more cheaply, more quickly, and with double the alcohol it had previously."

"They made _him_ a paragon?" she asks, incredulous.

"Well…" he says, consideringly. "I thought it was a bit odd too, the first time I heard it, but dwarves do take their alcohol _very_ seriously."

She nods.

"At any rate, the new paragon approaches Herja's father. He's seen and heard of Herja, and he's entranced. He wants her for his wife. Herja's father is overjoyed. His only daughter is to be the wife of a paragon. And his future son-in-law promises to settle all his debts."

"But when Herja hears, she's appalled. Not only will she not be able to become a Silent Sister if she gets married, but the paragon is a man old enough to be her grandfather."

"Ugh," Cassanadra says, listening, lips slightly parted, eyes wide.

"As the day of her wedding approaches, Herja finally resolves herself on a course of action. She can't marry the paragon. She just can't. She will arm herself, and sneak away in the dead of night to the Deep Roads and meet her end in honorable combat against the darkspawn."

As Varric takes another sip, he notices Cassandra's eyes are shining.

"So the night before her wedding, she awakens as she had planned, and steals out of her house, out of the Noble Quarter, but before she can go any further, disaster strikes. She runs into a lyrium smuggler, coming out of a secret passage. But not just any lyrium smuggler—a human who worked with the Carta."

"Now Edric—for Edric was his name—trips, literally trips, over Herja in the dark. So Edric curses, but reaches out a hand to help Herja up. Well, somewhere between picking her up and before he introduces himself, Edric has fallen in love with the beautiful dwarven maiden."

The pause stretches out.

"And?" Cassandra prods.

Varric turns to her and grins. "How the hell should I know? I'm just making this up as I go along."

She sputters, and her face begins to draw into her formidable frown.

"But…." Varric draws out the word and holds his hand up. "I could be convinced to meet you in here tomorrow night. When I've had more time to…reflect…on the story."

She looks at him warily, but with no malice. "I suppose I could come again tomorrow. After I finish my training. That is, if you will be here."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Seeker," Varric says.

And as he finishes his beer and bids her good-night, he wonders if Edric is the only one who has suddenly—but no.


	3. Chapter 3

"…as the spiders in the ancient thaig surround them, Edric and Herja stand back to back. Their faces are already spattered with blood, but Edric's daggers gleam in the pale light, and Herja's axe promises a quick death to any who dare come close. They are outnumbered, five to one, but Herja knows nothing of fear, and a defiant grin greets the spiders as they come closer. Edric, however, feels nothing but dread—not for himself; he had long ago resigned himself to death, but for Herja.

"Edric didn't know how he would be able to go on in this dark, dank, dim place without her. And he knew if only one of them could survive, it had to be—it must be—Herja. As the spiders surround them, moving ever closer, Edric awaits his opportunity, before he springs into action. He hacks and slashes at their legs, dancing nimbly between their attacks, his daggers only a blur to an unsuspecting enemy before he strikes and lands and mortal blow. Herja swings her bloody axe, and shouts her battle cries. Even the spiders hesitate at the sight of this unholy avenger, blond hair unbound and gleaming behind her, weaving an impregnable defense, taunting them to come closer."

Varric pauses, appraising his audience, many of whom are leaning forward on their elbows, eagerly awaiting his next sentence. His listeners no longer consist of just the Seeker, but most of the inhabitants of Skyhold; and whenever he begins telling his story, word seems to spread and the crowd grows larger and larger until the quiet little Tavern is almost full.

The Seeker, though, remains his biggest fan, and most appreciative listener. Tonight, she sits at the table closest to him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. As he had described the battle scenes, he had seen her hands twitch and move, as if she were wielding the axe along with Herja.

"When Edric finally dispatches the last enemy he can see, he turns around and sees Herja is cornered, trapped by two spiders who hesitate in approaching her. Edric relaxes, for he knows such a paltry number of spiders stand no chance against her. He sees Herja pause a moment to wipe the blood spatter off her face and out of her eyes, before hefting her axe for the killing blows."

"But then, the unthinkable happens. The blood on Herja's hands must have made the axe handle too slick, for her hands slip and the axe drops to the floor with a clatter. Edric sees that before Herja will be able to regain her weapon, the spiders will be on her."

You could have heard a pin drop in the tavern.

"Edric bellows with rage and charges the spiders, throwing his daggers at them before they can attack his love. One finds its mark and slams into a spider's eye, killing it instantly. The other misses, and his heart sinks as he hears the dagger clang dully against a rock. But still, Edric charges, to buy Herja extra time."

"The remaining spider lunges for him. He tries to roll away, but he isn't quick enough. He feels sharp fangs bite into his leg, and the telltale burn of poison. _So this is how it ends,_ he thinks, as he sees the spider rise up, its razor sharp legs poised over his chest—only to see it fall down as an axe bites through its body from behind."

"But it is too late for Edric, for he knows the poison had already begun to work. His only consolation is the thought that he has traded his worthless life for hers, and he will be able to die with her at his side."

Varric pauses, solemnly, as he lets the words sink in among his listeners.

"But…but…that can't be it!" the Seeker sputters. "He can't die like that! Why, he never even told her how he felt!"

"And why should he?" Varric returns. "He's an ugly, dishonorable lyrium smuggler, and she's a beautiful warrior from a noble house. Maybe it's better this way."

"No!" she says passionately, shaking her head and frowning at him. "Edric is more honorable and good than he thinks. It's just he—"

"_But_," Varric emphasizes, interrupting the Seeker, "as luck would have it, our story doesn't end there."

"Get on with it, then!" someone yells.

"Unfortunately, the rest will have to be continued tomorrow night," Varric says smoothly, as the crowd groans. Most of the audience finish their drinks and leave, to include the Seeker.

She nevertheless takes the time to glare at him and admonish him one last time. "Varric, Edric had better not die that way."

Varric winks at her. "You'll have to see tomorrow, won't you?"

She makes a disgusted noise, and says on her way out the door, "It had better be good!"

"Isn't it always?" he shouts, to her back.

But she makes no reply, and in a second, she is gone.

He finally buys a beer for himself—storytelling is thirsty work. As he nurses it, and ruminates about how, precisely, Edric would get over his poisoning—or would he?—a soft voice from the corner interrupts his train of thought.

"A masterful tale, told by a master. My congratulations, Varric."

Varric starts—how had he not seen her, so close?—but nods his thanks. "High praise, coming from you, Nightingale. I had no idea my humble stories would interest a trained bard."

"Ah," she says, amusement lacing her voice," It is a good tale, though not primarily told for my benefit, unless I miss my guess. Perhaps one person in particular?"

As he is about to demur—or perhaps shake his head and ask what she was talking about—Leliana rises from her chair.

"Walk me back to the rookery, Varric?" Her voice is gentle, lilting, musical and alluring. It is also, he knows, not a request. Or at least not one he feels comfortable refusing.

"Certainly," he says, looking only slightly regretfully at the half-tankard of beer he will leave behind.

As they exit together in the cold, frigid winter air, Leliana says, "I don't think I've ever spoken much about my time as the Left Hand. And I won't today, either."

Varric gets the sense that she smiles, although it's too dark to see.

"But…it is difficult being Left Hand, in more ways than one. People always want to be close to you, to flatter you, flirt with you. Anything to get closer to the Divine, to catch her ear. I wasn't sorry for it. It made my job easier. When someone is trying to manipulate you, they are less aware of you manipulating them in return. For…_others_…it might be harder. For someone, for example, whose heart is open, and who always strives for the truth, the lying and manipulation might be hard to bear. What do you suppose you'd do if you were in that position?"

"I don't know," Varric mumbles, not entirely sure he likes where the conversation is heading.

"Come come, Varric. You're the storyteller. You have an imagination, do you not?"

He pauses. "I suppose I would ignore everything I considered flattery. Just stick to my job."

"A good guess," the Nightingale allows. "I daresay that's how I would tell the story as well. The unfortunate thing is, if you've been that way for too long, you're likely to mistake even sincerity for false flattery."

"And…" she continues, "it certainly doesn't help if the only time you've recently made yourself vulnerable, you found out you were being trifled with yet again."

She pauses, glances sidelong at him as they climb the stairs up to the rookery. "I hope I have not insulted you. It is just as one storyteller to another, I wanted to make sure you had considered…all the information before you decide on Edric and Herja's fate."

As they reach the top of the second flight of steps and arrive at the rookery, Varric bows. "Thank you for allowing me to escort you. And…as one storyteller to another, thank you for…providing me with additional information."

Leliana nods, gravely, but her eyes twinkle underneath her hood. "You're welcome, but no need for thanks. It was my pleasure."

And as Varric begins the walk back to his room, he thinks better of it, and makes a detour—a long detour—to where the blacksmith shop is.

And as he walks up the dimly lit steps to the second story, he wonders if he is making a mistake, but…he has already committed himself.

She is writing at her desk when he arrives, and he studies her a moment before he knocks on one of the wooden beams to announce his presence.

His warrior princess is nothing like her physically. Herja is dwarven, fair-haired, and blue-eyed, young and unscarred. And Cassandra is human, and dark; dark eyes, dark hair, with scars bisecting her cheeks, and lines worn by time around her eyes and mouth.

She is beautiful.

And he clears his throat and knocks.

She looks up. And is that a faint blush staining her cheeks? But no, he is imagining things.

"Varric," she says business-like, and to the point. "What brings you here? I'm just working on," and she gestures toward the papers on her desk, "some reports."

"Ah," he says, almost losing his nerve. "I came to talk to you. To get your advice."

"About what?" she asks, frowning, puzzled.

"Well…" he says. "Herja and Edric. I'm kind of…stuck…with their story. But you seem to have some definite ideas?"

Her face changes, brightening, before she clears her throat and becomes business-like again. "Of course," she says, gesturing toward her bedroll. "Have a seat. I'm sorry I don't have more chairs," she says, sitting down next to him, drawing her legs up to her chest, and wrapping her arms around them, "but it's better than sitting on the floor."

"So," she asks, "What did you want to know?"

"Well.." he fumbles. "You seem to think Edric should definitely tell Herja how he feels?"

"Yes!" she exclaims. "Herja is brave in battle, but…I think shy when it comes to expressing her feelings. Too many people have pretended to like her only for her position, or her battle prowess. She needs Edric to speak first."

Varric protests. "But Edric is a _criminal_," he says. "A lyrium smuggler. And Herja is beautiful and noble and honorable and everything he's not."

The Seeker makes a dismissive noise. "If Herja was really concerned about _nobility_ she could've married the paragon. But she didn't. She didn't because she wants better. And Edric is better. He doesn't take no for an answer and accompanies her on her journey to the Deep Roads. And the lyrium smuggling…" she shrugs. "He was in a bad situation, but even in that he acted honorably. A truly bad person would have killed Herja for discovering the secret passage! But instead, he journeys with her, and constantly watches her back, and tries to make her smile and laugh," she sighs, and her own smile plays about her lips. "And tonight, he even shows how much he loves her. He almost sacrifices his life for her!"

And she gives him a dark look and continues, "And I say almost because I _know _this isn't the end to the story. Edric _must_ survive. I'm sure Herja figures out a way to save him."

"Ah," Varric says. "And you don't think Herja minds…the height difference?"

"Why would she mind?" The Seeker looks at him as if he were crazy.

"Well…some people would," Varric says, lamely.

"Then those people are idiots," Cassandra says hotly. "Herja loves Varric for himself, and not because…" and her voice trails off as she realizes what she's said.

And this time he doesn't imagine the blush, as her entire face is aflame, before she covers it with her hands.

"Varric, please go," she says. "Please." And her voice cracks, and he wonders if her face is ashamed underneath her hands, and that thought is almost more than he can bear.

"No," he says, reaching for one of her hands from where it covers her face, and he pulls it off, gently.

And he grasps it in both of his hands, and leans down, and presses a light, lingering kiss to the top of her hand.

"Please," she begs.

"Not until Edric tells Herja how he feels," he says, and turns her hand over, and presses a kiss into her palm, and when she doesn't move away, his lips move up to her wrist, and he leaves a gentle kiss there, and feels her pulse leap under his mouth, and his tongue, as he can't resist a brief taste of her skin.

The Seeker lowers the other hand from her face, and looks at him, surprise on her face. "Varric?" she asks, and he knows what she means, and he responds.

"Edric has loved Herja for longer than he can remember. He just didn't think she could ever feel the same way."

"Then he has been a fool," she says, and lifts her hand up to cup his cheek. "Such a fool," she repeats, as she brings her head close to his, and lightly, so lightly, kisses him, close-mouthed, on his lips, a brief contact that nonetheless sends an electric sizzle through his body, and he shudders.

"Maker," he moans, and moves back to capture her lips in his.

"Don't think," she says, in between kisses, "that you don't have to have Edric and Herja live happily ever after."

"Never," he groans. "But right now, I'm more concerned with a different story."

"Me too," she says, as she shifts closer to him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Varric, why didn't you ever tell me about her?" she asks, agonized, hands outstretched, pleading. "What am I supposed to think?"

"I don't know," he mumbles, turning away from her.

Cassandra's mouth thins into a line as she drops her hands. "I thought this—us—meant something to you. Maybe not a lot, but _something_. Instead, this…Bianca shows up, and calls me a…a…" she casts about for a word, starting to pace.

"She practically calls me a whore, and you say nothing, just…stare at her! As if the sun rises and sets out of her backside!"

The silence stretches between them until she can't bear it anymore. And still, Varric doesn't speak, doesn't turn around.

Finally, she grabs his shoulder and spins him around, and lowers her face to his, cupping his jaw in her hands. She puts all the care and patience she can muster in her voice. "Varric…tell me I'm wrong. Or, Maker preserve me, tell me I'm right. But," and here her control slips, "For Andraste's sake, _say something_!"

He looks into her eyes, and for a second, she thinks she has gotten through to him. But then he swipes her hands angrily away and looks down at the floor.

"It's complicated," he says.

"Am I too stupid to understand?" she asks, disbelieving.

He looks up into her eyes again. "No, but—"

"Then tell me! If you care for me at all, tell me, please," she begs, again reaching for his hands, at the limits of her patience, but damn it, she is not going to leave without at least fighting for this.

Something seems to break in him. "Fine! You want to know so badly, I'll tell you," he growls. He stalks to his desk and sits, pointing at the seat across the table from him, perhaps to put some space in between them. "But don't blame me if you hate it. It's a shitty story."

Cassandra perches on the chair, waiting, staring at him, waiting for what he has to say and dreading it.

Finally, Varric begins to speak, looking down at his hands; his loud, rich, storyteller's voice is thin and soft, so soft she has to strain to hear him.

Imagine, if you will, a boy that wasn't supposed to be born. A boy born to parents who neither wanted nor needed him, parents who already had a son, and didn't very much want another mouth to feed.

Imagine, too, a heated debate over a squalling newborn, with the stakes nothing less than his life, but which ends with his mother winning, and clasping the baby to her, and his father storming out of the house to drink.

And as the years go by, the boy grows, but not very much, because he was always the littlest and weakest. Anyone bored and looking for some fun would look for him, and mock him, and tease him, because it was easy and he was different. He would stand there, and cry, and take it. And his older brother, who used to stick up for him, got tired of taking his punches, and in the end, became the ringleader of the bullies in order to protect himself.

His father would berate and beat him constantly for being a disappointment. What use was a son who couldn't fight? A son who couldn't command respect? A son his neighbors mockingly called "Tethras's beautiful little girl" because of his delicate features, milky skin, long reddish hair, and green eyes hidden behind tangled lashes?

So after his father would get done beating him, and go out to drink, or black out and collapse (because the most dangerous times were both before and after his father got done drinking) the boy would dream.

He would dream of different things, but the one dream he would always come back to would be a hero who would protect him. Someone who would stand up to his father, and could level him with a punch. Someone who could take on all his bullies. A friend who didn't want him to be any different than he was.

Dreams don't usually come true, but perhaps fate, or his ancestors, take pity on him, because this one does, at least partially.

He's hiding in his favorite alley in Lowtown. He had seen the look in his father's eye when he came home earlier, and the boy has become adept in reading his father's moods. If he stays home, he'll regret it. There will be something, some excuse, and his bruises still haven't healed from last time. So, despite the coldness of the day, he needs to leave.

It is his favorite spot because it's a dead end, back in the warrens of Lowtown, where people would bring their garbage. It smells so foul that no one wants to go near it if they have a choice. So that is where he hides, and after he had carved himself out a spot to sit, and his nose becomes deadened to the noxious odors, it really isn't too bad. Maybe a bit cold, but he can daydream all he wants, and no one bothers him.

He was just in the middle of a particularly good idea about a prince slaying a dragon. When he closes his eyes, he can almost see it. A dragon, black as night, as big as the Viscount's palace, scales gleaming in the sunlight. And opposing it would be a noble prince in bright armor, fearless and good, with a brightly painted shield, and a long, silver sword. Or maybe it would be a princess instead of a prince—that would be unexpected and interesting—he thinks on it, when his musings are abruptly interrupted by the presence of someone else.

His heart falls. He wonders if his father has really tracked him out here. But when he looks out from his hiding place, he sees _her_. Bianca. For the first time.

She doesn't look very scary. She's a dwarf, about his age and size. He decides to take a chance and say hello.

She flinches when she hears him, but when she sees him, her faces softens into a smile.

He finds out she's just moved here, and was scouring the junk pile for material for her inventions. She tells him she's going to be a famous inventor.

He nods at that, as a child does, a child who still believes in a future of possibility, of tomorrows better than depressing todays.

And he pauses, and takes a deep breath, and tells her his darkest secret, a secret that he has hugged to himself, the only precious thing in his life, and he offers it to her. He tells her that he wants to be a writer.

Unbelievably enough, she doesn't mock him. She tells him that that sounds nice. It's quite possibly the kindest thing anyone has said to him.

He wants to tell her that, but instead he clears his throat, and helps her scour the trash for what she's looking for, because this is his territory, and he knows everything in it better than anyone else.

And in the long silences between searching, he tells her one of his stories. And she listens, and at the end, she gives him another smile and tells him she enjoyed it.

And when he goes home that night, he doesn't dream of heroes or dragons, but a friend with freckles and a smile who thinks he can be a writer.

"There, Seeker!" He flings the words at her, now that he's done his story. "Was that maudlin enough for you?"

He sneers, but his body is stiff, and pain is etched on every line of his face.

She sits there for a minute, staring at him. On the face of it, it's unbelievable. Snarky, cynical, self-assured Varric? That little boy? But she had heard the unmistakable ring of truth in every word.

She wants nothing more than to take her in her arms and tell him she is sorry, so sorry, and even if she has her own sad stories, she's never doubted that her family loved her, wanted her, would be with her today if they could.

But she knows somehow he doesn't want her pity, however honestly offered.

She chooses her words carefully, reaching across the table to grasp his hand. She closes her eyes and offers a brief prayer to the Maker, asking for the right words, or at least not the wrong ones.

"I always respected you, Varric," she says, looking into his eyes, hoping he could see the truth of her words. "But I respect you even more today. That was…a lot." And in her head she curses and wishes she was more eloquent. A lot, indeed. _Maker, please let him understand, even if my words are insufficient._

"I—thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me."

He's still not quite looking at her, but at least he hasn't withdrawn his hand from hers, but instead is gripping it nearly to the point of pain.

She rubs her thumb gently along his knuckles, putting all the tenderness she can muster into the light touch.

"I love you." She's never said the words out loud before, but she says them today, with no expectation that her feelings will be met and returned, but it was important, somehow, for him to know, and for her to be honest. As honest with him as he was with her.

She tries. She tries so hard to master her racing thoughts and her inept tongue, but so many thoughts crowd around, appropriate and inappropriate, and she finds she cannot say anything. _You're brave, Varric- I couldn't have gone through that- I wish your parents were still alive so I could kill them all over again- If I had known this, I wouldn't have said half the things I did, forgive me, forgive me._

So she does what she always does when words fail her, and acts. She stands up and crosses to his chair, and kneels in front of him and tentatively and slowly wraps her arms around him, so he can protest at the touch if he wants—she doesn't want this to be another violation. But although he's stiff, he leans into her, and she becomes more sure, and tightens her embrace, and brings him closer to her until his head is tucked underneath her chin, and she only says his name.

"Varric."

And he shudders, and seems to come undone. He's weeping into her shirt, not soft, gentle tears, but loud noisy sobs that cause him to gasp for breath, and his chest to heave, and he repeats her name, "Cass, Cass," like a mantra as she holds him, and strokes his hair, and kisses the top of his head.

And then, unbelievably enough, he is apologizing, in between his tears, "I'm sorry, Cass, so sorry."

And she wants to tell him, yell at him loud enough to obliterate it from his mind, that it isn't his fault, and it's obscene for him to apologize. But instead she settles for stroking his hair and telling him it's ok, that it's going to be all right, and shhhhh.

Eventually, eventually, after long minutes, or hours, he has cried until he has no more tears left to give, but still she holds onto him, and his fingers clutch onto her back as if he can never let her go, hard enough to leave marks and bruises, and still she doesn't move.

Finally, he lifts his head up from her shirt, and looks up at her with brilliant emerald tear-stained eyes, and a face blotchy and red with crying, and she recognizes as his face turns into the slightly self-depreciating sneer, knows he's about to mock himself or laugh, to turn the moment, but before he can, she cups his face once more in her hands and says, again, "I love you."

He turns his face into one of her palms, and she feels his beard stubble scrape her hand, as he reaches up and takes her other hand, clasps it in his, and gives a long shuddering breath, and only says to her, simply, "Stay with me. Please."

She nods. _Anything, Varric. Anything that will help. _"For as long as you need."

"I'm tired," Varric says. "So tired."

So they move to the bed, taking only their boots off, and she holds him in the bed, wrapping herself around him, as if she can shield him somehow, a foolish notion.

And Varric falls asleep surprisingly quickly in her arms, giving off gentle snores that make her smile in spite of herself, and she studies his face in his sleep, seeing there the scared, frightened boy he had been, and her heart aches for him.

It takes her considerably longer to fall asleep, but as she does so, she finds herself thanking the Maker for Bianca, and that Varric had found her when he had.


	5. Chapter 5

It all started with a flower.

Maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe it started when they met, and he couldn't help noticing the richness and beauty of her husky, accented contralto. Or maybe it started when the stern, angry, merciless Seeker paused, and sighed, and called his story romantic. Or maybe it started when the world went to shit in Haven, and he and she were there together, and fighting on the same side.

Maybe it was all of those times, or none; though if he had to pick just one, it would be the flower.

It happened when they were at Halamshiral.

Florianne had been…unexpected. Whatever the Orlesians were, they were usually a bit more subtle. Attempted assassinations in the middle of parties? A dramatic reveal of the villain (complete with an evil, cackling rant) followed by an epic fight in the palace gardens?

If he had written that shit in one of his stories, he'd have hoped his editor would have made him tear it up for being too trite and derivative.

Still, he supposed, sometimes life imitates art, and if nothing else, the whole thing would make a good chapter in his novel on the Inquisition. If he decided to write one, that was. Though he thought he was going to have a problem making the members of the Inquisition relatable and sympathetic. A more boring bunch of sanctimonious, humorless assholes he'd never met.

And the most sanctimonious, most humorless, most asshole-y one of all was his favorite Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast. She never spoke to him if she could growl, never looked at him if she could glare, never smiled if she could frown that menacing, threatening frown that made her face look like a thundercloud about to storm over a helpless, innocent dwarf.

Well, maybe that was an exaggeration.

He was neither innocent nor helpless.

And to give the Seeker her due, maybe she _had_ been trying to patch things up between them recently. Why he had been such a jackass in return was harder to say. Maybe it was because she always approached him in front of everyone else. At first he thought she was just doing it for show, mocking him. And maybe when he realized she wasn't, it scared him a little. He wasn't sure he was ready to forgive her.

Because if he forgave her, then he'd have to act civil. And if he acted civil, he'd have to be polite. And if he was polite, he couldn't use sarcasm to deflect her all the time.

And that was the crux of the problem. Cassandra was disarmingly intense. If you let her close, she was so truthful and honest, it felt like when she looked at you, she could look _through_ you. See into your soul. And it frightened him a little bit.

She demanded the best of herself, saw the best in what everyone else could be. And that scared him too, because fuck, he had been coasting for a while. His whole life, maybe.

He was the sidekick and tagalong because it was easier that way.

And he suspected she would lay all his secrets bare without him ever having to say a word. Oh, not specific ones, that was true. About specific things, she was remarkably easy to deceive. Imagination was not her strong suit.

But deceive her about people? Never. She believed him about Hawke because she had looked at him, and thought him a virtuous, _good_ person who would not lie about something important.

When he was around her, he wanted to be that better person for her, the person she believed he was and could be.

And the thought of that scared him shitless.

So…the flower. In another clichéd moment from the night, (and fuck, his editor would probably send him back this whole chapter if he wrote about it, with a note that said "you've gotta be shitting me") he saw the flower in the garden.

After the fight, the whole garden was a disaster. Petals were littered everywhere, stems and leaves were broken off and hanging haphazardly from branches, and entire flower beds were smashed and churned into the dirt.

He had lingered after everyone else had gone inside. He was just…tired. He was sick of all the death, and for what?

If he went in with the others, he'd have to play the foolish, joking dwarf like nothing had happened. And it was all just too much. Too depressing, too pointless.

The destruction of the garden seemed to him like a metaphor for everything that had happened. An hour ago, everything was beautiful and peaceful. And now…death and ugliness. All because one woman, who had nearly everything, wanted more.

And as his eyes scanned the landscape, he saw, laying on one of the cobble-stoned pathways, a single white rose, looking as perfect as if it had been cut off for a forgotten bouquet, but left stranded there by the vagaries of fate, a lone symbol of hope and beauty in the midst of tragedy.

And Varric smiled in spite of himself, and thought it would be a shame to leave it on the walkway to be trod upon or thrown out. So he retrieved it, feeling slightly foolish as he did so—he had nowhere to put it, and he'd look like an idiot returning, clutching a flower in one hand and Bianca in another, but he wasn't going to leave another beautiful thing behind to be destroyed.

"Varric?" came the voice from behind him. It was not…ungentle, but Maker's breath, he was too tired to deal with her right now.

His voice came, more bitter than he intended it to be. "You can tell the Inquisitor I'll be there in a minute."

"It was not the Inquisitor who sent me," she said softly, and came to stand next to him, and gave him a gentle smile, just a brief upward twist of her lips.

It still made her eyes crinkle with humor, and transformed her from an adversary to a…person.

_Fuck_. He didn't want to start thinking of her that way. Not now.

"Come to chastise me all on your own, then?" he asked with asperity.

"Varric—" she started sharply, before breaking off, and sighing. She looked out at the garden, away from him. "I am not as you'd have me be." She sounded tired, defeated. "I just…noticed you hadn't come back inside, and came to check on you. Not—" and she held her hand up, forestalling an interruption from him, "not that I think you need checking on."

She sighed again and sat down on a nearby bench, wrapping her arms around her. "I guess I just used checking on you as an excuse. I'm just tired, Varric. You know?" she asked, looking up at him. "You're in there," and she gestured with her hands to the palace, "and it's almost like nothing happened here today. Someone _died_, tried to kill the Empress…and to them it's just another excuse to drink and gossip and grow fat. We are fighting a war against Corypheus, and these nobles only care about…" she paused, "about how much they can get from whoever wins!" Her voice rose. "It's disgusting! It's why I left Nevarra in the first place. But you can never get away from it, can you?" she asked, turning on the seat to face him. "Wherever you go, there's greedy, selfish people looking to profit from the misery of others," she said bitterly.

She put her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, Varric," she said, after a time, lifting her head up and looking at him. "I'm just so _tired _of it," and her voice caught and did he see—or did he just imagine—the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes before she put her head down again.

And Varric was close—so very close—to murmuring something like, "I'll leave you to rest, then," and going back inside. He's tired like her, and he, who has always has something to say, doesn't have any words right now.

But maybe it's the fact that she had always been the strong one with such clear and steady faith, and it stunned him to see her like this now. Or maybe it's the fact that he _had _been an ass to her, and she deserves better than that. Or maybe it was fate.

But regardless, he made one step to the palace, hesitated, put Bianca down, and then went to sit beside her on the bench. Now that he was closer, he could see the tears, which she swiped angrily away.

He tentatively put his arm on her back, hoping a touch, at least, will bring comfort, though being that it's a touch from him, he doubts it. _I'm here. I understand. You're not the only one that feels this way._

He stayed that way, just holding her, until the trickle of tears stops.

Finally, she picked her head back up to look at him.

Her eyes were red and tear-stained. She gave a self-depreciating laugh and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Varric. I don't usually get like this. You should have left me here."

"I thought about it," he said honestly. "But then I couldn't."

He hesitated, decided to make himself vulnerable. "I was out here for a lot of the same reasons as you, I expect."

And he felt intensely self-conscious, but now that he's begun, he's determined to finish. "But then I saw this," and he held up the flower he still has in his hand. "It reminded me that even in the midst of destruction, there are still good things. There's still hope. There's still beauty."

He was more than slightly embarrassed, and waited for her to say something cutting to him.

But the silence stretched and lingered, not uncomfortable, until he said, "I want you to have it," and proffered the flower to her.

"Why?" she asked, not taking it, but not refusing it either.

_Because it reminded me of you_.

He shrugged. There was such a thing as too much honesty for one night. So he settled for, "Maybe it will remind you that there's a reason we fight. Shit, Seeker, if we give up, that's what Corypheus wants. And he'll destroy everything. We don't fight for _them_—" and he nods to the palace, "we fight because if we let Corypheus get his way he will destroy _everything _of beauty and hope in this world. And we need to save what we can."

And he handed her the rose, and this time she reached out to take it, and brushed his fingers in the process, and—perhaps it was just a trick of his mind, but it seemed to him something electric jolted between them from that brief touch over the flower.

"Don't let Corypheus destroy you, Seeker," he said, looking into her eyes, and knowing that he could get lost there, and for the first time, not caring.

The moment is held between them for unnamed seconds before she shivered and broke it.

"It's getting cold, and we should probably go inside before we are missed," she said.

"Fuck 'em, Seeker," he said. "Do you _want_ to go back in there?"

"No," she admitted, with a half-smile.

"Then stay here," he said. "Let them talk. They will anyway. Might as well give them a reason."

And she looked at him, and he thought maybe he had overplayed his hand, and was about to get a lecture on responsibility from the cold, hard, Seeker.

But instead_, _Cassandra laughed, a warm, musical sound that banished the ghosts that lingered there.

And that laugh is when he finally knew—knew he couldn't keep running from her, and maybe didn't want to anymore, either. Or maybe he just wanted to hear that laugh again.

"So what would you like to do?" she asked, still amused.

Several interesting possibilities crossed his mind.

"Well," he said, settling for the safest option, "We are at a ball. It would be a shame not to dance." He flashed her a smile.

"Dance?" she said, doubtfully. "You can barely hear the music out here. And—"

"Come on, Seeker," he said, standing up and plucking the rose out of her hand, and carefully tucking it into her hair, under her braid, making sure his fingers did not linger as they wanted to.

He bowed. "Lady Pentaghast, may I have the honor of this dance?"

Her face showed confusion. "Varric, I don't know—"

He reached for her hands and pulled her up, and winked at her. "Just a dance."

She hesitated a second, then nodded, putting her left hand on his shoulder and her right in his, and he wrapped his arm around her back. Finally, she relaxed, and he began the steps.

It should have been awkward and ridiculous, but…it was surprisingly _nice_.

After a few moments, she allowed, "I suppose…this isn't terrible."

"High praise, coming from you, Seeker," he said sarcastically, but it was a different sarcasm than before: gentle and teasing, instead of designed to hurt.

She snorted.

"I notice you didn't ask what I thought, Seeker, but not to worry, I'll tell you anyway," he grinned. "I have to say," and he drew out his answer, pretended to be thinking, "I'm not sure if I think it's terrible or not."

She looked down on him, her lips parting in indignation, and he felt her about to draw away from him.

"I think," he said, holding her hand more firmly in his, "I might need another dance. To fully decide."

And Maker help him, she laughed again.


	6. Chapter 6

Cassandra would hate leaving her books behind the most, but there was nothing she could do about that. They were entirely too heavy to take on the road with her. But even so, the loss would ache, as each book was almost like a treasured friend.

Her hands rested on their spines, appraising them for the last time. There was the book of poetry Galyan had given her, always a source of comfort when she couldn't precisely put a name on her feelings. The poems could distill her emotions far better than she ever could, and she would read, and re-read each one, discovering something new every time. After the tragedy at the Conclave, it had never been far from her side.

And this one, an old, and rare, history of the life of Andraste that the Divine had lent her from her own library. Unlike some of the more recent histories she had read, this one was personal, written as if the author had known Andraste herself, full of details both charming and salacious. The Divine's eyes twinkled just slightly as she had lent it to Cassandra. It was probably the only thing she still had with a personal connection to Justinia, and it would be wrenching to leave it.

And of course, there was the one with the red-headed guard-captain on the front. The latest chapters written just for her—a guilty pleasure when she was stressed or upset. Ironically, it would be this one, this piece of trashy, smutty literature, that would be hardest to leave behind. Not for its content, which admittedly never failed to bring a smile to her face, but for what it came to represent between them.

Perhaps there was room for just one—

But no. Best to make a clean break.

Cassandra stepped back from the bookshelf, shouldered her pack, took one more look around the room, eyes stinging treacherously, and slowly, deliberately, turned around. The symbolism wasn't lost on her—she was literally turning her back on her life here. She sighed. If only she saw a way it could be otherwise…but it couldn't, not without her being unbearably selfish.

It was a…mistake, between them, and something he certainly couldn't commit to, not with Bianca, and—

She gave a rueful grin.

She had one more stop to make, where she would wait until darkness, and then—leave.

* section break *

She was first alerted to another presence by the shadow that loomed on the wall in front of her from where she knelt in front of the Shrine.

"Well, well, there you are. You have been most difficult to track down. I have a favor to ask of you, Lady Cassandra."

The voice told her who it was. Not that they had had many dealings, but the voice was…distinctive. Not that the voice was entirely necessary; there weren't many people who would walk into a chapel, see a person kneeling, deep in prayer, and feel free to blithely interrupt.

"Morrigan," she ground out between her teeth, purposely, and childishly, omitting the "Lady" that the Inquisitor had seen fit to append to her name. Not that she usually cared about such things one way or the other, but she couldn't believe the woman's rudeness. "This is not a good time."

"On the contrary," Morrigan said, sitting on the new bench inside the chapel, and arranging her skirts around her, " 'tis an excellent time."

Cassandra held back the slightly hysterical urge she had to laugh. Her last day here, she had been praying for peace and tranquility, the ability to do what she needed to do, and…Morrigan. The Maker had a dark sense of humor.

She sighed. She supposed she could listen to whatever it was Morrigan had to say. Everyone had expected her to leave immediately after Corypheus had been defeated, but the woman was still here two weeks afterwards, for reasons of her own, no doubt. She did nothing that did not benefit her. Still…it would probably be easiest to get rid of her by hearing her out and refusing whatever it was she wanted.

"What is it you need from me, Morrigan?" she asked, with a slight edge in her voice.

"_I _need nothing from you," Morrigan said, her mocking voice laced with amusement. "No—" and she stopped, paused, and her voice was softer when she resumed, "I ask for my son. For Kieran."

"Kieran?" Cassandra said, confused, sitting back on her heels and glancing at the Witch. She had seen the boy a few times, mostly at a distance—a small, thin, dark shadow that Morrigan kept carefully away from others. "What about him?"

"I was wondering…if you could train him."

"Train him?" Cassandra asked. "In what?" She was half-convinced Morrigan was playing an elaborate trick on her. To what end, she knew not.

Morrigan sighed, looking down at her hands and speaking slowly and carefully as if the words were unwillingly drawn from her lips. "In..swordplay…or…or whatever you would call it." She looked up and her eyes met Cassandra's with a grim determination that convinced the Seeker that this was no joke, whatever it is.

Not that she would be here to train Kieran, anyway. But it was a terrible idea. The boy is small, and slight, and far younger looking than his years. Cassandra momentarily softened as, incredible as it seems, the Witch is asking her…_a favor_. An ill-advised favor, but a favor nonetheless.

She searched for the words to let Morrigan down gently. "Perhaps…Sera. Or if you prefer someone," and the words 'less insane' flash through her mind, "easier to work with," she said diplomatically, "I can ask Cullen for a recommendation. The boy looks like he would take well to archery."

She would have suggested Varric, but—no.

It was easier to suggest something else than to tell Morrigan plainly her son would never be suited to a sword and shield. Technique counted for much, it was true, but not everything. Kieran would barely be able to wear armor, let alone fight in it. Not that mastery of the bow didn't require its own strength—to use the great longbows that some men used required more strength than many possessed—but something simple like a modest-sized compound bow or a crossbow could be used by anyone.

Morrigan smiled at her—though, perhaps not, as the witch would never do anything so vulgar and common as to smile. Perhaps it would be best to say that one side of her lips twitched upward in a quiet satisfaction, as if she had known such a response was coming and was secretly amused that others were so predictable.

"My asking you—'tis not a coincidence. I could have asked your commander myself. Or the Inquisitor. Instead, I asked _you_," she said, unblinking yellow eyes boring into hers. "Thinking may not be your strong suit, but I have never heard it said you were a stupid woman."

There it was. There. The rudeness the Witch was famous for. Even when asking for a favor, she apparently couldn't resist.

Cassandra rose to her feet. "I'm done here," she spat at Morrigan, and swept past Morrigan's skirts, but having reached the threshold of the door, Morrigan's voice stopped her once again.

"So eager to leave, Lady Cassandra? As you wish. Give my regards to Varric. I believe he's just started writing in the Great Hall. _The Story of the Inquisition_ or some other such rot. But I understand," and Morrigan paused, injecting her words with subtext, "_people_…like his books?"

_What does she know?_

Cassandra turned around slowly. "What is it you want from me?" she ground out, between her teeth.

Morrigan met her eyes briefly, then made a show of rearranging her skirt. "Why, my dear, nothing more than what I asked. Train my son."

"Then let me speak plainly, Morrigan. Your son is small, slight, and weak. I doubt he'd take to arms training, and especially not training with a sword and shield. If for some reason he must, let it be with a bow." Cassandra hated being so blunt and even cruel, but if the woman wasn't going to take no for an answer, then blunt she must be.

The Witch's mocking smile slipped. " 'Tis said of elven and human children that the human traits are dominant," Morrigan said, yellow eyes shining in the dimness of the chapel. She paused, as if waiting for a response, or simply how to phrase what it is she is next going to say.

"That is what they say, yes," Cassandra agreed cautiously, slightly on edge at the sudden change of subject, a subject that struck a little too close to home for comfort at the present moment.

"And yet…Kieran has been raised around magic, should have magic in his very blood, but…he does not. He dreams of swords, shields, great warriors, helping the oppressed. And where has he gotten these things, Lady Cassandra?" she demands, leaning forward. " 'Tis not from me!" she said with a wry smile and shook her head. "Definitely not from me," she repeated. "I find that…despite my best intentions, I am not able to help him find his path. His father—" and she sighed and paused to gather her thoughts.

Cassandra felt dizzy and more than a little nauseous. The Maker had a dark sense of humor indeed.

"I had hopes that his magic was late to appear, but after all this time, 'tis certain it will not," Morrigan said. "But believe me, I am not so blind as you would have me be. His father, too, was a small, slight man. From the alienage in Denerim. And yet…he was strong enough to slay the Archdemon."

Cassandra's eyebrow quirked up. In spite of her worry over her present predicament, she was impressed. And rather astonished. Kieran's father was the Warden who stopped the last blight?

"Just give Kieran a chance," Morrigan said. "A few months."

"You make a convincing argument," Cassandra grudged. "I am, at times, too hasty to judge. And I was a slight, skinny child myself."

Morrigan nodded, as if she had known all of this. "Which is part of the reason why I asked you."

"But I couldn't help you even if I wanted to," Cassandra continued. "I am…leaving, and not sure of when I'll be back." Somehow saying it out loud made it sound more…final. Cassandra swallowed.

"Ah," Morrigan said, flatly, as if not surprised by the revelation.

"But I will endeavor to find someone to recommend to you before I go," Cassandra said, resenting the additional burden, but…Morrigan's appeal was sound. She would help the boy if she could.

"Lady Cassandra," Morrigan interrupted, as she had turned to leave again. "I hope you have a plan."

"A plan?" Cassandra whirled around in astonishment.

"Yes, a plan, my dear. Something better than what I had. Something beyond 'flee, and hope for the best'?" Morrigan laughed bitterly. "Of course, I was young and naïve, and had a vague sense my magic could take care of everything. I'm sure you have something better in mind."

Cassandra swallowed again.

"Forgive me," Morrigan continued. "I'm sure you do. How foolish of me. At least my shapeshifting abilities could help me elude detection. I'm sure you know someone of your appearance would be recognized almost anywhere. And taking to the wilderness is foolhardy for anyone not raised there. And even then, I'm afraid I couldn't recommend giving birth in a cave alone to anyone." Morrigan's eyebrows raised, looking at her. "It is…not a pleasant experience," she said drolly, but Cassandra sensed there was a wealth of pain and regret hidden underneath the witch's exterior.

There was a long pause as the witch considered Cassandra, unblinking, with her wolf's eyes, and Cassandra stared back.

"It is not as easy—or unselfish—as you'd think. But…perhaps I am wrong. About everything."

Morrigan smiled—almost genuine this time, with just the smallest hint of self-mockery and amusement.

"I'll have Kieran out by your practice dummies by the 8th hour tomorrow, in case you reconsider."

Cassandra paused, and her head swam. She had prayed, and—

Surely not. But she was no longer certain either. She needed to talk—well-at least, she needed to think.

Cassandra sighed. "I promise nothing, but…" she paused, and it seemed many things, or many lives, hung in the balance. "If I am there, it will be at the 5th hour. Training starts before the sun."

Morrigan nodded. "I will see to it Kieran is there. In case…you change your mind."


	7. Chapter 7

"Varric?" she says, when they had been walking through the Emerald Graves for a while, and the green lushness encourages a false sense of peace, and the dense branches overhead a false sense of intimacy.

"What?" he says, eyes focused on the horizon. Nothing but hills, rocks, trees, and more trees, but if he didn't pretend to be scanning for threats, he'd have to look at the Seeker.

"Earlier. When I called your friends your associates…I want to say I meant no offense."

"No problem, Seeker. I'm sure the word 'friend' is new to you, so I can make allowances."

Varric sees her wince out of the corner of his eye. _Good, serves her right._ Still, his stomach twists a little. His rudeness is going beyond the point into meanness and…he isn't sure he likes it. But this is _them_, the pattern they'd settled into, and it's far too late to change it.

"Varric, I—" she sighs. "Forget it." And perhaps for a second it sounds like her voice catches, but surely that is a trick of the Graves, this place of unexpected echoes and unexplained noises. Surely.

"Already forgotten," he says, eyes looking behind her, around her, anywhere but at her face, where, if he sees the expression there, he might hesitate. He might hesitate and then apologize, for perhaps he's gone over the line. He can hold a grudge like few can, but he's also not a man with a taste for hurting others, and so, the apology might come tumbling off his lips.

No, far better to think of the Seeker as a soulless bitch with a sharp sword and a sharper tongue, with an amusing taste for bad literature, than…well…than to see her as anything else.

So he looks at her, through her, but doesn't take the time to _see_, because looking is easy and seeing is difficult.

But perhaps it is because he is looking so intently that he spots it first.

He puts his hand up to the others, the universal sign for _stop _and _quiet_. The Inquisitor and Dorian, senses attuned to the environment, stop within a few paces.

They look around, mouths widening into O's when they see what is in front of them.

They are remarkably camouflaged bastards for how large they are. Which perhaps explains why Varric had seen it almost too late. Almost. But not quite. The group can stop, slowly and silently back up, retrace their steps, go around the thing.

The Seeker though, usually the most alert one, the one always chiding them for their carelessness, is walking with her head down. The person who is always the first one with her sword out, the person with the sixth sense for danger, is the one walking straight at it. Straight at the dragon.

Varric finds himself praying. _Look up, look up, in the name of the Maker and Andraste, and all that's holy, Cassandra, you tender-hearted idiot of a Seeker, getting so upset at what I said, just look up and I'll forgive you everything. Just look up. Please._

And he waits, stock still, forever and for an instant, watching. The dragon is so close he can see its individual shimmering green scales, rippling in the dappled sunlight as the thing breathes in and out. Its eyes are closed in slumber, the only reason it hasn't seen them yet, but it is too close for him to cry out to her. And all he can do is hold his breath.

He's not sure what alerts the dragon. It is sleeping one second, and the next is on its feet. He expects it to be ponderous, slow, but it is fast, faster almost than the eye can process, and so the dragon is bellowing in rage at Cassandra while he fumbles for Bianca and his clumsy, slow fingers attempt to load the crossbow. And he sees one enormously large leg go up, the dragon malevolently eyeing the metallic insect that dared interrupt its nap.

Cassandra, sword in hand, runs toward the beast—and Varric aims his crossbow—and he sees her roll when the leg comes down, the dragon shaking the earth, only missing the Seeker by_ thatmuch_. The dragon's eyes and ire are fixed on its armored target, and Varric's bolt streaks from the crossbow.

Amazingly, impossibly, it hits the dragon in that malevolent red eye. And the Seeker is there, and can finish it off, and maybe they've gotten lucky—

But before Varric can celebrate, the dragon screams in agony. Its tail whips around, and there's a noise—a beautiful noise—the loud, pure, metallic, clang of a bell—and the Seeker's body moves—flies— in an elegant arc, up, up, up, and then down, down with a thud that sounds like—

Death.

The next moments are—strange. There and not there. He hears Dorian shouting an incantation in Tevene, sees the dragon thrashing, almost filling the sky, then a small green rift appear, trying to pull the dragon into itself, but what fills his vision is not the struggle, but the sight of the Seeker's lifeless body.

He runs for her when the rift finally closes around the dragon, extinguishing itself, and vanishing in a flash of green light.

She's face-up, unmoving on the lush, vibrant grass, one leg bent under her at an impossible angle that tells of a break—a bad one—but she's not moving or moaning, and he babbles as he works at taking her helmet off, cradling her in his arms, talking to her. "Shit, Seeker, you're just trying to scare me, aren't you? Well, it's not going to work, you're too damn stubborn to let a thing like a dragon—"

And he hisses as he finally works the helmet free, because she's so pale, so very, very, pale, and her eyes are closed, and she's so damn _still_.

It is too quiet to be able to lie to himself, and between one beat of his heart and the next, he's able to _see_, not just look, and he sees in her stillness all the things he was afraid to see before.

Her beauty and her vulnerability and her _goodness_—things he knew were there, but he was too damn afraid of, and why had he ever been afraid? _Please. Give me another chance to put this right. Not for me, for her._

And he's scared to put his fingers against her neck, terrified of not what he will feel, but what he won't. But with trembling fingers he reaches out, and presses his calloused hands against her soft neck and braces himself—_And if she's dead, it's your own damn fault, same as if you killed her yourself— _buthe feels a pulse under his fingers and—_thank the Maker, she's alive._

Alive, but not well, and his shrill voice yells for the already-running Dorian to hurry.

* section break *

"But mom was okay, dad, right?" concerned hazel eyes blink up at him. And though he's told the story many times, still, in the way of children, she asks the same questions.

"Of course she was, little one," he says, smoothing her brown hair down with a smile. "You think something like a dragon can keep your mom down for long? She was up again in no time."

He glosses over the anguished cries as they set the bone, the months spent with headaches and blurred vision, the crutches as she waited for the shattered leg to heal, the slight limp that is with her still.

He ends the story as he usually does. "And that's when I knew I loved her. Someone that beautiful and that brave? How could I not?" He winks at her. "Of course, you mom took a little convincing before she realized she loved me too."

"But you all lived happily ever after?"

"Of course," he says, leaning down to kiss the freckled cheek. "But now it's time for you to go to sleep."

She sighs and rolls over, burrowing her head against her blanket. "Good night, dad."

"Good night, little one."


	8. Chapter 8

"The heresy appears, for the moment, to be centered around Serault, but I recommend we stamp it out immediately before it has a chance to spread any further."

"And how would you recommend we do that, Mother Jehanne?" Divine Victoria asked, massaging her temples. It had already been a long day.

"Send some clerics to preach the Truth, along with a contingent of Seekers to ensure the people are remaining faithful. Give the ringleaders a choice. They can recant or be put to the torch."

"Ugh." The Divine made a disapproving noise.

"Most Holy," Mother Jehanne started, "I know you are compassionate. Some would say…_too _compassionate." There were some murmurs of assent around the table. "Though I, of course, do not believe that," she quickly amended when she saw the glare Divine Victoria directed at her. "But we are already more lenient than any of our predecessors. Heresy was always punishable by death. At least we allow the perpetrators to recant. Beatrix and Justinia would have put them to death regardless."

Another murmur of assent around the table.

"I am not Beatrix or Justinia!" the Divine growled, pounding the table with her fist. "The Chantry should rule with compassion, not with fear!"

Mother Jehanne shrugged. "There will always be some who will perceive kindness for weakness. For those, we must act swiftly and without mercy."

The Divine massaged her temples again, reaching as far under her ridiculous wimple as she dared. The damn thing itched, and made her sweat, and she still had no idea what to do about the heresy in Serault, other than the knowledge that killing those who refused to recant, which she suspected would be a large number, would only entrench hatred of the Chantry even further.

"Most Holy," one of the red-clad messengers entered the room, dropping a bow, and coming over to whisper in her ear. "You asked to be informed immediately when your visitor arrived."

Cassandra Pentaghast, the Divine Victoria, felt a tinge of happiness for the first time that day. "Show him to my sitting room," she directed the messenger in an undertone.

As the messenger disappeared, she considered the problem Mother Jehanne put to her. "You make a convincing argument," she admitted to the woman sitting across from her. "And I value your advice. Still, I am uneasy about putting so many to the torch for questioning whether Andraste's children should share in her divinity. They are not advocating for an overthrow of the Chantry."

"They may as well be—" Mother Jehanne started angrily.

"I will pray on the matter," the Divine said firmly.

"As you wish," the cleric said, thin lipped.

"This meeting is concluded. I will let you know when I have reached a decision," she said, getting to her feet.

All the clerics rose, and bowed respectfully.

Cassandra left the room, feeling their eyes on her back.

* section break *

"Varric!" she exclaimed with a smile when she entered her sitting room. "How long has it been?"

He rose from his chair. "Ten years, Most Holy."

She wrinkled her nose, and crossed the room to give him a hug. "None of this Most Holy nonsense," she said, from where her head was over his shoulder. "Or Divine Victoria either. You used to call me Cassandra. Or Seeker."

She drew back from him and motioned for him to sit back down, and took the chair across from him. He looked…much the same. More wrinkles had appeared on his face, and his hair was no longer exclusively red, but streaked with silver, but still…he was the Varric she remembered.

She sobered. "I only wish we could have met again under better circumstances."

He nodded. "Cullen's death was a shock, but not a surprise. He's never been well since he got off the lyrium."

She nodded. "You are the first to arrive. The other should come tomorrow, or the day after." She heaved a sigh. "It seems a shame that the first time we've gotten together is for…_this_."

She was silent for a while, thinking about Cullen, about the Inquisition, about…one of the happiest times in her life.

She sighed, and went to massage her temples again, and ended up exasperatedly ripping her wimple off her head, and throwing it across the room. "If someone had told me I'd have had to wear that every day after becoming Divine, I would've refused the appointment, straight out." She laughed, and ran her hands through her hair, but then stopped when she caught Varric staring at her, an odd look on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing, Most Ho—Seeker. I just see," and he motioned toward her hair, "you cut your braid off. I guess I just always thought you'd keep it. But it makes sense, I guess."

"Yes," she agreed, her throat unaccountably tight. "No one sees it anymore, so…why bother with it?"

"That's a shame, Seeker."

She looked down at her hands, and an awkward, long silence spread out between them.

She decided to change the subject. "Thank you for all your letters," she said with a false brightness, as she attempted to chase her previous sadness away. "I sometimes don't know what I'd do without them. And…thank you for finally giving the guard-captain her happy ending," she smiled. "There were a few times I was on the verge of calling an Exalted March to Kirkwall just to get you to treat her better."

"Oh, Seeker," he said. "You know me. If you love a character, you have to make them suffer. But I always give them their happily ever after. Eventually. Be honest. Would the ending be as satisfying if she didn't go through everything she had? "

"I suppose not," she allowed.

He smiled, and then the awkward silence stretched between them again. She remembered times when they always had something to say to each other. Times they fought, and bickered. Times when he had made her laugh. Times when they had whispered endearments to each other. Times when—

"Would you like to play Wicked Grace?" she blurted.

His eyebrow raised. "I thought at one time you swore never to play Wicked Grace with me again, because you were tired of—" and he stopped, and apparently thought better of what he was about to say, "I mean, because you always lost."

"I may have gotten better," she smiled. She crossed the room, pulling on the bell in the corner.

To the servant that quickly appeared, she said, "A deck of cards. Some chips. And a bottle of the Nevarran red. Would you like anything?" she asked Varric.

"The Nevarran red is fine," he said.

"Two bottles of the Nevarran red then, and two glasses."

The servant bowed, and left.

"Let's sit at my desk," she said.

They crossed the room, and she pulled a chair up across from her desk for Varric. The servant reappeared with the cards, chips, and the wine, and poured them two glasses before disappearing again.

She grabbed the cards and began to shuffle them. She smiled across the table at Varric. "Just like old times."

"Not quite," he said, looking into her eyes, and she flushed, and looked down.

She pretended to misunderstand him. "That's right, because I intend to win this time."

"Whatever you say, Seeker."

She dealt.

They had gone through the first bottle, and half of the second. Most of the chips were sitting in front of her.

"You've gotten better at this, Seeker," he admitted, after she had won her third hand off of him.

"I've gotten better at lying," she said. She paused. "I wish I hadn't."

He looked up at her. "I wish you hadn't, either, Cassandra."

She didn't think he meant just because he was losing.

She sighed, and perhaps her tipsiness loosened her tongue. "I was in a meeting today when you arrived. There's a new heresy in Serault. One of my chief advisors wants to put everyone to the torch who won't recant. And I—I have to decide whether to do it or not."

"I'm sorry," he said, with sympathy in his eyes.

"Sorry for what?" she asked bitterly. "I wanted it. Wanted this job and everything along with it. I thought this was what the Maker was calling me to."

She looked down at her chips. "But the truth is, I hate it—I hate _this_," she said, honest for once, maybe for the first time in ten years. "I remember when the enemy was in front of us. Would attack us with swords and knives. And I'd stand in front of you, and the Inquisitor, and the mages, and beat them back. Do you remember?"

"How could I forget, Cassie?" he said, reaching across the table, grasping her hand in his.

"But now—now I have meetings. Endless meetings. The same faces every day. The same schemers who try to gain my favor to get—" she broke off, laughing without humor. "I don't even know what they want. More titles, more favors. But they simper, and smile, and all the time they plot behind my back. I can at least respect the ones who hate me and are rude to my face." She squeezed his hand and poured herself another glass of wine.

"I knew it would be like this. Somewhat," she said. "I just didn't know it would be this bad." She took a long swallow of her wine. "And yet, between the boring meetings, and the courtesies…with one decision, I can kill hundreds. And never have to see them. They will be gone in the blink of an eye, and the Chantry will move on."

"I remember when the only enemies were the ones we saw. Where I could kill the one, two, three in front of me, and it was a good day if we all came home alive. I wish it was that simple again," she said, tears pricking her eyes.

"Me too," he whispered, then looked down at his cards.

She cleared her throat. "How many cards would you like?"

"I'll take two," he said, discarding across the table. She picked up two cards from the deck and shoved them at him.

"You know, Varric…I would have stayed if you had just asked me to," she whispered. "But you never did. I all but begged you to. I kept waiting for you to ask me not to leave. And I wouldn't have."

"How could you ask me to be that selfish?" he said. "You told me Thedas needed you."

"But_ I_ needed you, Varric," she said, pained. "But you never said anything! Just wished me luck."

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "Insist you stay with a casteless dwarf, a nobody, when you had a chance to influence all of Thedas?"

"_Yes_," she said.

She swallowed, then looked down at her cards, collecting herself. "Three," she said, discarding, and drawing three new cards from the deck, and studying her hand closely. Too closely.

He untwined his hand from hers to tip her chin up to look at him. "I'm sorry. I tried to do the right thing. For once in my life. For once in my worthless, pathetic life. I tried to do the right thing, Cassie. I'm sorry."

She looked at him, and she could feel the tears gathering in her eyes, threatening to fall. "I'm sorry too."

Then she looked down, biting her lip. "How ridiculous I am. Thinking of old times." She drained the rest of what remained in her wine glass. "Let's get this over with. All in," she said, pushing her chips to the middle of the table.

His eyebrows raised. "You bluffing me again, Cassie? I learned my lesson. I call."

And he pushed his chips to the middle of the table.

She turned her cards over. "Flush," she proclaimed. "What do you have?"

"Two pair."

She smiled, sadly. "I guess I win this time. I told you, I have gotten better at this. I wish…" and she trailed off, looking into the distance. "I wish I hadn't," she said with a grimace.

Then she looked at him. "I'm sorry too. About…everything. I thought this would be less…awkward. I thought we could be friends."

"Friends? After what we were? I loved you."

"I loved you too, Varric," she said, rising to her feet. "But…you never spoke. And I didn't, either," she admitted. "So here we are."

"Here we are," he repeated. He rose to his feet. "I guess I'll see you in a few days time for the funeral."

H e bowed. "Good evening, Most Holy." And he turned around to leave.

"Varric," she said. And she crossed the room to where he was, grasping his shoulders, turning him around. "I missed you. For all these years. I missed your advice, your jokes, your criticism…I thought I would forget, that the pain would fade…but it hasn't. It never has. Please—please don't leave again. Stay with me," she said, and she couldn't believe her boldness, but she bent down to press her lips shyly against his, wondering how he would react after all this time.

It was ten years, but it felt like yesterday when she felt the warmth of his embrace, the steady pressure of his lips beneath hers. And though he froze for a second, a second that felt unbearably long to her, he quickly pressed back against her, his tongue seeking against the seam of her lips.

She opened her mouth to him and moaned. "Please, Varric. At least for tonight." Their lips and tongues tangled with each other as she deepened their embrace, her hands caressing his back through his shirt, feeling his muscles move under her touch, the prickle of his stubble under her cheek, the way one or two wayward strands of his hair brushed her face. Even his scent, the smoky sweetness that always clung to him, it was the same. And it was better than she imagined, when she would think of him, late at night, clutching her pillow while tears leaked from her eyes.

"Please, please—" she murmured against his lips, though exactly what she was begging for she didn't know. She wanted him, beside her, with her, but she wanted herself back too. She wanted to be Cassandra again, not Victoria, and so, "please, Varric, please."

But with a groan, he pulled away from her. "I tried to do the right thing, Seeker. Keep trying to do the right thing. I loved you, still love you, but this—this…we can't do this."

Cassandra lowered her head. "You're right, Varric." The tears finally fell, unbidden, along with a sob she could no longer control.

"Shhhh…" he whispered, catching one of her tears on his thumb. "The real heroes always get their happy endings. They just have to suffer a little bit first."

Cassandra laughed bitterly. "So when do I get my happy ending?"

"You tell me, Most Holy," he said. "You're the expert. Doesn't the Chantry tell us we're brought to the Maker's side and given what we deserve? Maybe then. But I know whatever happens, I'll be waiting for you. Always."

She looked at him, not bothering to control her tears and sobs, but she smiled through them. "We will see each other again. Someday. I believe that. And I believe when it happens, there will be nothing between us."

"I'd like that, Cassie," he said, smiling as well. And he pulled her down for one more kiss. A chaste one this time, no parting of lips, just a gentle pressure of his against hers, as his hands threaded through her hair, and her arms went around his back.

But finally, he drew away. "I love you," he said. "I always will." And then he bowed. "I'll be waiting for you, Cassie. No matter how long it takes."

And he smiled his crooked smile that always made her heart turn over, and then he left, quietly closing the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Not a happy fic. Possibly triggering, though there's nothing explicit.

* * *

Her clenched hand hesitates before the door.

Gods, if only she didn't have to do this. If only her barrier spell had been a little quicker.

_Varric, staggering. Varric, crumpling to the ground. Time stopping, his eyes wide with shock and surprise, Bianca slipping from his grasp, gently as the last petal from an autumn flower._

_Varric, gone._

Putting all of her will into it, before she can reflect, she knocks once, softly; hoping, perhaps, that the knock won't be heard, and blissful sleep will remain that way for a few more seconds.

But quick feet move to the door, and a laugh tinges the voice of the woman who opens it. "Varric, you know you don't have to—"

But then all laughter ceases.

"Inquisitor," the Seeker says. It's not a question.

All the words Lavellan had rehearsed fade away.

The Seeker's face starts to crack. "He's gone, isn't he?" she whispers.

Lavellan swallows.

"He's gone," the Seeker says more firmly, but there's still the slightest tinge of a question.

"I'm so sorry," Lavellan says. She reaches out to embrace the woman in front of her. "He was—"

The Seeker turns away. "Leave me," she commands.

"Cassandra, please—"

"_Leave me._"

Her voice has the ferocity and inexorable power of the north wind, a power even Lavellan dare not gainsay.

But her last glimpse of the Seeker, before she shuts the door, is of her slumping to her knees.

Lavellan waits outside the door for a time that stretches and freezes. But she hears nothing but stillness and silence, and eventually, she moves away, shivering.

* * *

They wait on Varric's oldest friends to show up to the funeral, and they come: from Weisshaupt, from Kirkwall, from the Waking Sea.

There is even a small hooded figure who arrives late and leaves early, but nonetheless pays her respects.

Their tears water the flowers of the Chantry garden.

But through it all, the Seeker is immovable, remote. She speaks when spoken to, in short, terse words, but that is all.

Her head is held high during the funeral, her face white.

The statue of Andraste in the chapel has more life within it than the Seeker does.

Lavellan is worried, and more than worried.

Her hand hesitates over the door once more that evening, praying to the gods again for the right words.

But as she prays, she hears weeping through the door.

Unbidden, unthinking, Lavellan opens the door, and Cassandra looks up from where she is kneeling, arms crossed over her stomach, as tears trickle down her face.

"Cassandra?" the elf asks gently, and crosses to where the Seeker is, fearing the worst.

"My friend," the Seeker says, unfolding her long legs, curling back on them, and rising slowly, gracefully, to her feet. She grasps the hand the elf stretches out to her and guides it gently to her abdomen, pressing down.

Lavellan waits in the stillness, and then feels it, the tiniest of movements under her hand, the slightest ripple in a pool.

"Oh, Cass," she says, and embraces the taller woman.

"He would have made a good father," Cassandra says, face buried in Lavellan's shoulder.

"You will be a wonderful mother."

Tears of sorrow mix with tears of joy.

* * *

They're celebrating, all except Cassandra.

"The whispers come from the Sequester. I will be made the new Divine."

"But you can't. Can you?" Lavellan frowns. She doesn't know the Chantry as well as she ought, but certainly Cassandra can't be the Divine, not unless…

"Cassandra," she says sharply. "You—surely not. This can't be what you want." She stops, realizes she's gone too far, says, more gently, "Is it?"

"My comfort and my joy lie in doing the Maker's will," Cassandra replies tonelessly.

"But what about you? What about what you want?" Lavellan asks, desperately, watching, waiting, for any emotion from her friend.

"What I want does not matter. The Maker would not elect me to be Divine unless it was His wish that I serve."

"How do you know that's true?" Lavellan is incredulous. "Maybe he wants you to refuse, to name a successor! I see how you smile when you think of your—"

The Seeker interrupts, harshly. "The Maker does not make mistakes. He wishes me to be the mother to all Thedas. And I will serve Him, as I have always promised."

"But—"

Cassandra sighs, the sigh of the bone-weary. "The Maker calls us not only to serve when it is easy, but also when it is hard."

"He asks too much!" Lavellan disagrees, tears springing to her eyes.

"Perhaps," the older woman says, her own eyes glistening.

"Oh, Cassandra," she says, grasping her friend's hands. "What can I do?"

"Just be there with me when—" Cassandra's voice cracks. "Just be there with me."

Lavellan wants to argue more, but…"Of course, my friend. Of course."

* * *

The warm light of Divine Victoria's reign illuminates all of Southern Thedas for decades, ushering in an era of peace, prosperity, and religious tolerance.

When she finally dies, the chantry bells toll their mournful cries for days, and everyone, from high to low, feels sorrow at her passing.

The Sisters say she left the world with the Chant in her ears, and praise for the Maker on her lips.

But it comes to the Inquisitor that Victoria's last words were of relief.

_Thank the Maker, at last I am done._


	10. Chapter 10

Varric had never realized how much he fucking hated Orlais.

There were the silly masks; the execrable fashions; the overly-fancy food and wine that made him long for the simpler fare and ale of The Hanged Man; the subtle, and some would say, stupid, intricacies of The Game; not to mention the soft, silibant, lisping syllables of the Orlesians accents that had him convinced he'd be wiping spittle out of his hair for a fortnight.

The only redeeming quality the Orlesians had was that, apparently, they _loved_ his books. _Loved. _So at least they had fine taste in literature.

Before he knew it, he was surrounded by an admiring crowd of the finest flower of the Orlesian aristocracy. It should be said that this flower was perhaps not the most intelligent; centuries of inbreeding will do that. But there was something to be said for being liked—admired. And having people ask questions about your books, and hanging on every word of your answers. And hell, being the center of attention.

They laughed at his jokes. More than a few of the women were flirting with him. It made a nice change from the ride here, where his travelling companions had been the Seeker, Cullen, and Madame de Fer. He had spent the carriage ride wondering if one could literally be bored to death. (Answer: no, but it could certainly make death an appealing prospect.)

So, maybe during the ball he laughed a little bit more than usual, told his stories with greater exaggeration. What of it? The Inquisition was here to make friends, and he was doing it.

After one of his best stories, an entirely fictional account of how he and Hawke had outsmarted some pirates to discover a four country lyrium smuggling ring, the short, buxom blonde in the front row put her hand on his arm, tilted her head to him and said breathlessly, "My, aren't you brave, Mr. Tethras."

"Please," he chuckled. "Varric. Mr. Tethras is my father."

"Of course…Varric." She said it in a throaty purr that reminded him of the bedroom. And then she artfully snapped open a fan, and leaned back, fanning herself, murmuring something about the heat in the over-crowded ballroom.

And, in the process, pushed her…ahem…well-endowed chest inches from his face. He watched in fascination as the green fabric strained as she arched her back. He was convinced it would rip, and waited for the tell-tale sound, but seemingly in defiance of the laws of nature, and his fondest hopes, the fabric held.

She touched her tongue briefly to her lips and pitched her voice to his ears only. "I'd love to hear some _private_ stories later, if you have the time."

It was all quite, quite obvious. But then the obvious was obvious for a reason, wasn't it? It worked.

"I'd love—" he started. Only to be jerked back by a hand on his shoulder, and before he could protest, a familiar, accented voice hissed in his ear from behind him.

"Sorry to take you away from your…" and there was a short pause. Now, it should be said about short pauses that they were usually indicative of people searching for the correct word. Or even an amusing turn of phrase. Not the Seeker, though. With him, she expended her wit, what little there was of it, for her insults.

"Your_ harem_," she concluded, spitting the final word at him. "But we have trouble."

He turned around. "_We_ have trouble?" He gestured around him. "_We_? I was told we were to be witty and charming, which I am. Whereas you, on the other hand, seem to be playing a strange game of charades where the only correct answers are 'statue', 'pillar', and 'bore'."

Fuck, he forgot how magnificent she could be when she was angry. Her hands balled into fists, and a flush crept up her face. A tiny vein near her temple began to throb, and a crease formed between two delicate eyebrows, while her eyes flashed at him.

She stepped toward him, looking at him as if she'd like nothing better than to choke him. He could've sworn he even saw one of her hands twitch toward his neck.

He wasn't worried. She wouldn't seriously consider harming him in the middle of Halamshiral, would she?

On second thought, he took a step back.

The Seeker took a deep breath, as if collecting herself, but she couldn't refrain from shooting him one more look of disgust. "The Inquisitor was _supposed_ to be here ten minutes ago to dance with the Duchess. The others are looking for her, but in the meantime, her absence has been noticed. A few minutes would have been seen as fashionable, perhaps even a veiled attempt to remind the Duchess of the Inquisition's importance, but this…this is beginning to be seen as disrespectful."

Varric blinked. Now that Cassandra had said it, he could hear the rising tide of dissatisfied-sounding murmurs in the room that his admiring throng had masked. But still…

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, confused. "Find her?"

"No," she hissed. "The others are doing that. Create…" and her hands moved in circles, gesturing around the ballroom. "Create a distraction."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he said, running his hands through his hair, thinking of the possibilities. "Juggle? Act like a lunatic? Pretend to have a fit?"

"I don't know," she said, wringing her hands. "Just nothing that will harm the Inquisition's reputation."

"So, make a distraction that grabs the attention of everyone in the ballroom, but also make sure it's nothing vulgar or upsetting?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, nodding her head, a slightly relieved smile coming to her face.

He stared at her in disbelief. "Oh, well, now that you put it that way, it's so _easy_, why—"

And he stopped suddenly as a thought struck him, and a grin split his face. He couldn't.

But he could.

It was just what she asked for, wasn't it? A distraction that everyone would enjoy. Except for her.

He thought of the time when she held him hostage. The time when she tried to punch him and nearly succeeded. Every nasty thing she'd ever said to him.

Paybacks were hell.

"Come with me, Lady Cassandra," he said smoothly, taking her hand in his, and tugging her over to the top of the Grand Staircase. "And smile."

He half led her, half pulled her, and he _almost_ took pity on her when she said, "Varric, please—" But then she spoiled it and demanded, in her haughtiest Seeker voice, "Unhand me!"

He just smiled even wider and gripped her hand tighter. "Now, now, Seeker. Don't make an unpleasant scene."

When they got to the top of the staircase, he drew in his breath. Fuck, he was going to _enjoy_ this.

"Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention please?" he boomed.

He instantly felt the gaze of hundreds of eyes on him as the ballroom went silent.

Cassandra's hand, which had been limp under his fingers, suddenly clutched his tightly, her nails biting into his flesh. "Varric," she hissed. "What are you doing?"

"Smile, Seeker," he said between his teeth.

He continued his speech. "I 'm sorry for interrupting an affair of such great state importance for a personal matter, but I have an announcement to make, if you'll indulge me."

Every eye looked at him, and the white-faced woman standing next to him, with unfeigned curiosity. He had them, he knew it. If there was one thing the Orlesians loved more than their masks, and their Game, and their food, and even his books, it was gossip. And this would probably make the rounds for _years_.

He turned to the woman standing next to him, reaching to take her other hand in his, and stared up at her as if she was the only woman in the world. The lady herself probably ruined the effect by standing there with a look of dawning horror, but he reminded himself that a great actor can only work with what he has.

He curved his lips in what he hoped was a smile of complete and utter contentment.

And then he dropped his bombshell, making sure to pitch his voice to every corner of the room. "Lady Cassandra Pentaghast has just made me the happiest man alive, by doing me the great, great honor of agreeing to be my wife."

Cassandra's jaw dropped.

"No," he heard her whisper, desperately, shock and anger in her eyes. "You can't—"

The crowd began to clap. And cheer.

"You wanted a distraction?" he murmured, still smiling up at her. "You got one."

She huffed, angry, speechless, and he sensed she was about to work herself into a blistering tirade.

"Don't forget to smile for the crowd, my dear," he said softly, mockingly, reaching up to smooth out the angry wrinkle between her eyes, and then he daringly cupped her cheek, caressing her jaw with his thumb. He idly noticed that her skin was softer than he thought it would be.

And then he heard someone say, in the way of the Orlesians, cruel words clearly meant for their ears, "Lady Cassandra? With a dwarf? Whatever could the poor dear be thinking?"

He held his smile, though the words stung. They weren't sentiments he hadn't heard, in one form or another, over the years.

But Cassandra's face tightened, and her eyes flashed fire again, and the redness of her anger suffused her cheeks.

"How dare they?" she hissed, clearly furious.

He thought at first she was angry at the insult to her judgment.

He gave a minute shrug. "It's all just a show for tonight, Seeker," he said. "You can break off our…_engagement_…tomorrow." He winked at her.

But his response, if anything, seemed to make her more incensed. "How dare they? Just because you are a dwarf. If I knew who they were, I would kill them myself."

And the truth was, she looked like she would do it, too.

He was oddly touched that she was so enraged on his behalf.

"It's fine, Seeker. Nothing I'm not—" he started.

And stopped when she took a step toward him, closing the distance between them, bent down, and pressed her lips to his.

His eyes widened in shock, but he swallowed his surprise after the first second and leaned back in to her, curving one hand around her waist, resting on her hips, and putting the other on her hard, muscular shoulder.

After that, he had no idea what to do. He held his breath, afraid to do anything, wondering if he had suddenly gone mad. But the warm, chapped lips pressing against his were real enough, as were the hands balled in his jacket, pulling him closer.

Was she improvising this as part of the show? Or was she trying to turn the tables on him? Or—

Her lips parted slightly against his, her tongue lightly tracing the seam of his lips.

He tightened his hand around her waist. Fuck the questions. He was going to enjoy this.

He opened his mouth to her, throwing any remaining caution to the wind.

If it was one of his books, he would've said she tasted like wine, smelled like flowers or spices, maybe that their tongues teased each other.

But none of that happened. She smelled like Cassandra, like leather, and metal, and self-righteousness.

And she didn't taste like wine, but like cool, fresh water to a man parched, and it was far, far better than any wine could be.

And their tongues didn't tease so much as assault, for Cassandra, if she does a thing, does it forcefully, and with her whole heart, and so she kissed him with the passion of a lover sending her sweetheart to war, with urgency and desperation and force, and he, Maker help him, he went with it, and kissed her back the same way, lips bruising and tongues clashing.

And even though he was standing at the top of a staircase with hundreds of eyes on him, he forgot about anyone but her, just her, and he was kissing her as if he had wanted to do it for ages—_and had he_?—and Maker, it was intoxicating. He had been on the receiving end of numerous artful, teasing kisses before, but her kiss was honest, and held nothing back, and he couldn't get enough. And somehow, during all this, his hand had somehow gone under her tunic and was clutching the warm flesh of her back, and her hand had crept under his collar to press firmly against his chest, and all he was thinking about was how to get even closer to her, when he heard _it_.

Someone's throat clearing.

Cassandra was the first to break away, her cheeks flushed, whether with embarrassment or passion, or both, it was impossible to tell.

Lavellan, standing behind them, her cheeks slightly pink herself, cleared her throat again. In a quiet tone, she said, "Thank you for the…" and she trailed off. "For the distraction?" her voice pitched it as a question. "Or should I be congratulating you, or…" her voice trailed off again. "I'm not sure what just happened here."

"A distraction. It was only a distraction. What else could it be?" The Seeker's words were short, clipped, flustered. He would've found it amusing if he didn't feel the same way.

Finally, the Seeker settled on, "It was all Varric's idea."

Lavellan raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Of course. All Varric's idea. I could see that."

"I—" the Seeker said in a strangled voice. And if she was pink before, she was crimson now.

"You will both never mention this again!" she ground out between her teeth, then turned on her heel and stalked across the ballroom, making for the garden.

"You're going after her, right?" Lavellan motioned to the door as Varric stared after the retreating Seeker.

"You think I should?" Varric said, dubious. "I think she'll probably rip my head off. If I'm lucky."

"She might," Lavellan agreed. "But I think it'll be worth your while afterwards. If…you take my meaning." She smiled at him, then clasped her hands and sighed. "Gods, what I'd have given to have been here to see the whole thing."

"I don't know," he said doubtfully.

"Trust me," Lavellan said. "From what I saw, she_ wants_ you to go after her. Even if she doesn't know it yet." She grinned at him. "Good thing you're so good at convincing people."

When he still made no move, she shooed him. "Go, go! I have to dance with the Duchess," she said regretfully. "But I want a full report tomorrow."

Finally galvanized into action, Varric smiled in return, and followed in the Seeker's footsteps out to the garden.

* * *

Later that night, or, to be more accurate, the next morning, Varric lay contented, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, Cassandra snoring softly beside him.

Did he ever mention how much he fucking loved Orlais? Because he did.


	11. Chapter 11

It has been a while.

Years, if he's honest.

(He rarely is.)

So he hasn't counted the days, the weeks, the months, and the years since she's left. Because that would be, what? Pathetic.

And he's not pathetic.

He's learned: no point in feeling sorry for himself. Nobody else would.

So he's smiled, and kept himself busy. Writing, mostly. Drinking, sometimes. Governing, when he couldn't get out of it (so nearly all the time he wasn't doing the other two).

He continued _Swords and Shields_. For her. Only for her. That, he can be honest about. Then again, nobody else liked the damned tripe, so who else would it be for besides her?

Sometimes, when he was on his fourth or fifth whiskey, he allowed himself to imagine her reading it. Tucking her legs up under her, bare feet peeking out to the side, the look of anticipation as she gathered the book in her hands reverently, the long pause as she'd sit and inhale the scent of the vellum, waiting, an acknowledgement of pleasure soon-to-be gratified.

He had loved watching her read. She'd always tug her braid free of its pins and pull it over her shoulder. For anxious moments in the book, she'd tug on it; for sad, she'd soothingly caress her cheek with the silky ends. When it was happy, her fingers would dance on the strands, and she'd eventually look up at him with a sparkle in her eyes, a curve to her lips, and a blush in her cheeks.

He could never resist that look. Thankfully, she had been more than tolerant of his interruptions.

More than tolerant. He allows himself a smile at his thoughts.

But it was his fault she was gone.

So, through the years, he tried not to think of her. He had no right to, really. But whenever he wrote his newest chapter, then, and only then, would he allow himself the indulgence.

So many chapters later, so many imaginings, and he's finally going to get to see her again. Soon. Exactly when, he doesn't know. But he has waited all these years.

(Thirty-two years and three months to be exact. He _had_ counted).

He can wait a few minutes more.

He wonders if she will be angry.

The last time he had seen her, he had hurt her badly. More pain that he had ever seen her in, and that was saying something.

Yes, that was saying something.

He will make it up to her. That, he has promised himself. How, exactly, he doesn't know. But he will be armed with his latest chapter (albeit most of it is still in his head, since he hasn't had the time to put it all out on paper). But she liked hearing him tell the story almost as much as reading it. Sometimes more, because she could argue with him about it.

She did like to argue.

That was part of what had gotten them in the predicament in the first place.

But no, it was too painful to think of. Happy thoughts. _Positive_ thoughts.

He coughs, and then winces. His chest hurts.

So where was he? Positive thoughts. So he has the latest chapter. And he will apologize. Straight away. Beg forgiveness. Tell her it was all his fault.

Because it was.

Yeah, it was.

She was pretty good, though, about apologies. As quick as she was to anger, she was even quicker to forgive, to love. (Though she hid that pretty well. Had to, really, he supposes, in her line of work.)

So he has hopes. Yes, he has hopes.

And then he figures, planning it in his head, if she doesn't walk away from him, he will tell her how shitty his life has been without her.

Pretty shitty.

He coughs again.

When had it gotten this hard to breathe?

He feels a little panic. But, as he reminds himself, he has no right to panic, no right to feel bad.

This was nothing compared to what she had to endure for him. So much blood, he remembers.

He closes his eyes.

They had advised them it was dangerous when they found out, but she had argued against his concern and told him she had faced far longer odds and succeeded. She would be fine, she said.

And he had believed. Why wouldn't he? She was the Seeker, _his_ Seeker. She could do anything.

Until she couldn't.

So much blood.

He breathes, but it's not enough air. His lungs won't fill, and he takes another breath, and another.

He's ready to see her, but he's afraid, too. What if she's not there? What if she doesn't want to see him?

He was there, with her, when she died. When they both died.

She knew. She was a warrior, and she knew when she was done. But she had fought to the end, fought to give their child a chance.

For a moment, he had been the happiest man in the world. A wife, a daughter, a family.

And then, nothing.

He hopes she will forgive him. For not sending for Hawke or Anders ahead of time. For not insisting she take more precautions.

For putting her in danger in the first place.

It's getting harder and harder. Things are starting to slip away. _Breathe_. He has to think about it. Why isn't it easier? He has been doing it all his life. _Breathe_. He forgets if he doesn't remind himself. It is easy to forget. _Breathe_.

Will she forgive him?

He has the chapter ready.

He will say he is sorry. And that he loves her. And he would do things so, so differently. Never take her for granted. Never again.

_Breathe_.

He has the chapter ready. It's new. But will it be enough?

_Breathe_.

He has the chapter ready. Please let it be enough.

_Breathe_.

He has the chapter ready.

_Breathe_.

He has the chapter.

_Breathe_.

He has the chap—

* * *

She looks the way he remembered. Beautiful. So beautiful.

He drinks her in. It has been so long.

But a frown flits at the corner of her mouth. She looks... angry.

He can't remember what he wants to say. So many things, important things, but his mind and thoughts are hopelessly tangled.

"Why did you take so long, Varric?" She scowls down at him.

But before he can begin to feel fear, he sees that her eyes are full of humor. He relaxes. She always did like giving him a hard time. He feels hope begin to stir in his chest.

He doesn't know why he's been so long. He can't think of the reason. Why would he keep her waiting?

But there is one thing he remembers. "I have your new chapter ready," he says. Somehow, that seems important.

The smile lines around her eyes crinkle. "So do I," she says.

He starts. "How did you—" he begins.

"We'll write it ourselves. Again and again and again." She laughs.

He senses they are talking of different things, but it doesn't matter. She _laughed_. It is a sound he had forgotten. A sound that reminds him of home.

_He is home_.

"So, husband, we've been waiting for you," she says tenderly, taking his hand, interlacing her fingers with his.

"We?" he asks. He sees no one else with them.

"We," she says firmly, smiling and gesturing ahead, around a bend in the road. "Come and see."

So he comes, and they travel hand in hand. Together.


End file.
